Giveaway! Aftershock by Jill Sorenson

THERE’S A FINE LINE As an emergency paramedic, Lauren Boyer is dedicated and highly capable. Until an earthquake strikes, trapping her beneath the freeway with a group of strangers-including Iraq war veteran Garrett Wright…

BETWEEN PERIL AND PASSION Handsome and take-charge Garrett aids Lauren in her rescue efforts, even as the steely look in his eyes seems to hide dark secrets. When a gang of escaped convicts goes on the attack, Garrett’s bravery makes him more than a courageous bystander to Lauren. If they can save the others before time runs out, maybe, just maybe, they can explore the fire igniting between them-if the truth about who he really is doesn’t pull them apart forever….

Lauren felt as though the conversation was slipping away from her. She was still reeling from the story about Morales, shaken by his actions during the fugue state. This was going somewhere…interesting.

A cautious voice warned her not pursue this subject. But another part of her, one that was seeking any distraction from the chaos, any sensation besides fear, spoke up instead: “What do you mean?”

“Being near you drives me crazy,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Even when I’m not looking at you, or talking to you, I’m aware of you. I can smell you.”

“You can smell me?”

“Yes.”

“Do I smell bad?”

He laughed harshly, shaking his head. “You smell like a woman.”

“Not a freshly showered one.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if you stunk, I’d still want you.”

“You…what?”

His gaze dropped to her hand, where it was curled around his bicep. “I want you,” he said through gritted teeth. “And not in any soft, romantic way. I’m no better than Mickey or Jeb. I was excited by the sight of you with your shirt torn. I’ve fantasized about tearing the rest of your clothes off. Repeatedly.”

Her lips parted with surprise. That wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. She’d sensed the attraction between them, but she’d never felt threatened by him. He’d gone out of his way to protect her. “Do you enjoy forcing women?”

His eyes darkened. “No.”

“Then you’re not like them.”

“I’m exactly like them.”

“You wouldn’t have to force me, Garrett.”

He groaned, glancing away. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re a good man.”

“No,” he said shortly. “I’m not.”

After the story he’d told, she understood why he carried so much guilt and self-loathing. Every war veteran battled those demons. It was also clear that his confession about wanting to rip her clothes off was meant as a warning.

But she wasn’t afraid; she was aroused.

Her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, and her skin tingled with anticipation. She longed to feel his hard body against hers.

She moved her hand from the crook of his arm to the nape of his neck. “I thought we went over this already,” she said, lifting her lips to his. They touched briefly and pulled apart. “I’m right about everything. To infinity.”

He stared at her mouth for a few seconds, struggling with himself. She imagined that his control was hanging by a thread.

She wanted it to break.

When she moistened her lips, tasting him on them, he snapped. With a strangled growl, he pressed her back against the side of the truck and covered her mouth with his. Thrusting his hands into her hair, he devoured her. He kissed suggestively, driving his tongue deep, making her open wide. There was no question about which act they were mimicking. She moaned, twining her arms around his neck.

His kiss was smoking hot and dirty. She could feel the grit on his skin and smell the faint hint of gasoline on his shirt. It thrilled her.

He broke the contact, his eyes trailing down her chest. Her breasts were heavy and full, her nipples tight. She arched her spine, biting down on her lower lip. Groaning, he took her mouth from another angle, letting her breasts settle against his chest.

She splayed her hands across his back, exploring the muscles beneath her fingertips. He was so built. Flicking her tongue across his lips, she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and lifted, seeking bare skin.

She might rip his clothes off.

He raised himself up a little, but not to remove his shirt. His gaze dropped from her swollen mouth to her jutting nipples, mesmerized. She indulged his unspoken request by stripping her top off and tossing it aside. The lacy cups of her bra felt too constrictive, and he clearly wanted to see more. Reaching behind her back, she unhooked it.

When her breasts tumbled free, he looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. “Jesus,” he whispered, cupping her soft flesh.

His hands made an erotic contrast to her bare skin. They were dark, ravaged, bandaged. So large that her breasts appeared almost delicate in comparison. His thumbs swept over the sensitive pink tips, wrenching a cry from her lips.

He glanced up at her face, gauging her reaction to his touch. She trembled in his arms, ready to beg.

Thankfully, he didn’t make her. He stretched out on top of her and kissed her again, moving his thigh between her legs. Sliding his tongue in and out of her mouth. Stroking her taut nipples, again and again.

It was too much and not enough. She kissed him back hungrily, writhing beneath him and threading her fingers through his hair. Her hips rotated in needy circles. Panting, she rubbed herself against his hard thigh.

He shoved his hand between them, palming her hot sex. She gasped at the sensation, wound as tight as a wire.

Making a frustrated sound, he tore his mouth from hers. “I can’t touch you there.”

“Why not?”

“My hands are dirty.”

She stared up at him, blinking.

He lifted himself off her, moving slowly, as if in pain. Her eyes swept down his body, widening at the enormous erection straining at the front of his jeans.

Wow.

She thought about offering to skip the foreplay, but maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. “I have foam cleanser.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He kept his eyes averted, his shoulders slightly hunched. “No. I can’t.”

It was obvious that he wanted to continue, but wouldn’t let himself. His soiled hands weren’t the issue; his guilty conscience was. “You son of a bitch,” she said, her breasts quivering with indignation. She picked up her t-shirt and clutched it to her chest. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

Hmmm, she concludes he’s married from that? Most men wouldn’t give a little dirt a second thought. My mind went directly to him having a problem with dirt. What does that say about my psyche!? Count me in to the giveaway!